XIII. JOB X. XX.
Are not my dayes few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may bewaile my selfe a little.
My Glasse is halfe unspent: Forbeare t'arrest
My thriftlesse day too soone: My poore request
Is that my glasse may run but out the rest.
My time-devoured minutes wilbe done
Without thy help; See, see how swift they run;
Cut not my thred before my thred be spun.
The gaine's not great I purchase by this stay;
What losse sustain'st thou by so small delay,
To whom ten thousand yeares are but a day.
My following eye can hardly make a shift
To count my winged houres; thy flie so swift,
They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift.
The secret wheeles of hurrying Time do give
So short a warning, and so fast they drive,
That I am dead before I seeme to live:
And what's a life? A weary Pilgrimage,
Whose glory, in one day, doth fill the stage
With Childhood, Manhood, and decrepit Age.
And what's a Life; the flourishing Array
Of the proud Summer meadow, which to day
Weares her greene Plush; and is, to morrow, Hay.
And what's a Life? A blast sustain'd with clothing,
Maintain'd with food; retain'd with vile selfe-loathing,
Then weary of its selfe, again'd to nothing.
Read on this diall, how the shades devoure
My short-liv'd winters day; How'r eats up howre;
Alas, the total's but from eight to foure.
Behold these Lillies (which thy hands have made
Faire copies of my life, and open laid
To view) how soone they droop, how soone they fade!
Shade not that diall night will blind too soone;
My nonag'd day already points to noone;
How simple is my suit! How small my Boone!
Nor do I beg this slender inch, to while
The time away, or falsly to beguile
My thoughts with joy; Here's nothing worth a smile.
No, no: 'Tis not to please my wanton eares
With frantick mirth; I beg but howres; not yeares:
And what thou giv'st, I will give to teares.
Draw not that soule which would be rather led;
That Seed has yet not broke my Serpents head;
O shall I die before my sinnes are dead?
Behold these Rags; Am I a fitting Guest
To tast the dainties of thy royall feast,
With hands and face unwash'd, ungirt, unblest?
First, let the Jordan streames (that find supplies
From the deepe fountaine of my heart) arise,
And cleane my spots, and cleare my leprous eyes:
I have a world of sinnes to be lamented;
I have a sea of teares that must be vented;
O spare till then; and then I die, contented.
S. AUGUST. lib. 7 de Civit. Dei cap. 10.
The time wherein we live is taken from the space of our life; and what
remaines is daily made lesse and lesse, insomuch that the time of our life is
nothing but a passage to death.
S. GREG. lib. 9 mor cap. 44 in Cap. 10 Job.
As moderate afflictions bring teares; so immoderate take away teares;
Insomuch that sorrow becomes no sorrow which swallowing up the mind of the
afflicted, takes away the sense of the affliction.
EPIGRAM 13.
[Fear'st thou to go, when such an Arme invites thee?]
Fear'st thou to go, when such an Arme invites thee?
Dread'st thou thy loads of sin? or what affrights thee?
If thou begin to feare, thy feare begins;
Foole, can he beare thee hence, and not thy sinnes?
